- On a hill of sheep, crouched down like two black stones, fooling the clouds that wander over the rim of the blue May sky, woolly and slow as sheep, but not the sheep - the small-brained, foolish sheep - who know where black stones sit, and drift uphill, calling their young with broken, nasal baas, that answer in higher keys and trot stiff-legged to the sides of their mothers and kneeling under one flank thrust up ferociously - clearing the dug - and tails waggling in a woolly frenzy, drink - Warm barnyard smells - The May sun drowsing down upon our necks and backs. Like stones we sit, watching the clouds slow-drifting over the hills, lazy as sheep. Against the green-wool curve of the hill, how whitely the young lambs shine as they frisk in loops of idiot joy. Two come so close we could almost reach a hand and touch their soft, mischievous faces. But stones don't move, and today, in this warm May sun we are content to be like stones - like sheep - like barely drifting clouds.